


Worth

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Gods of the Arena, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It makes no sense, and Duro fully expects it to end in broken heart, if not broken head. But he's always been a contradictory boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth

**Author's Note:**

> For those of us who prefer our slash to be a little less canon, I present a new ship: Ducky. Enjoy.
> 
> Also, Lord knows how it happened, but I managed to take the two happiest characters in the show and write almost 2,000 words of angst. Go figure.

"You are not worth pissing on," he growls, and Duro falls in love.

It makes no sense, and Duro fully expects it to end in broken heart, if not broken head. But he's always been a contradictory boy. Auctus walks away from him, scorn on his face and Duro has the sudden, passionate urge to prove him wrong.

\--

He picks the story out for himself. He sees the way Barca touches Pietros, the way a man touches his beloved, and the way Pietros returns the affection with quick, guilty movements even though there is delight in his face. Almost instinctively, his eyes trace Auctus' form, and he sees the stiffness of his back when he hears Barca's low laughter.

He’s not stupid. He knows what he sees.

More than that, though, he sees the light in Auctus's eye when he breathes the air on a clear morning, and the solemn tenderness with which he cares for his birds. Duro knows what happiness looks like. He believes in searching for it, always, and he sees the faintest glimmer of it in Auctus's eyes.

\--

The stone walls have a way of catching onto words, and passing them, carrying them far beyond their original reach. The position of Duro and Agron's cell allows them to hear many things uttered in too-loud voices, and one night they hear Pietros and Barca speak of freedom, of the life they will have once Ashur makes good on his debt. Barca's voice, so harsh when he curses the Syrian, is tender as he professes his love.

Then Auctus passes their cell, his fists tight, resignation written in every line of his face.

They are not yet locked in for the night; Duro stands and leaves.

"Where are you going?" Agron asks, a warning in his tone.

"It is none of your concern."

"Duro, you fucking cunt, do not waste--"

Duro ignores him. He follows Auctus to his room and finds the gladiator on the bed. Auctus sits up.

"What do you want, pup?" he asks, but there is no fire in his voice. Duro falls to his knees.

\--

Their first kiss is sloppy and desperate and Duro's heart soars. He runs his hands down Auctus's chest, gasping at the feel of firm muscle under his palm. Hands tangle in his hair, pushing him down, and he goes willingly, pulling down Auctus’s subligaria and swallowing his cock.

"Fuck the gods," Auctus groans, and Duro takes that as challenge and encouragement.

Auctus likes it rough, with Duro’s fingers digging into his thighs and his tongue pressed flat against his cock. Sometimes he mutters his approval, but more often he simply pushes his hips up or tugs insistently on Duro’s hair. Once, he tugs hard enough to hurt, and Duro pulls off and laughs.

“Gently,” he admonishes, pressing a kiss to Auctus’s muscled thigh.

“Fuck gentle.”

Auctus leans down and kisses him thoroughly, before setting Duro again to task.

His lip ring rubs against sensitive skin and Auctus groans. His cock is hard and hot and leaking, and Duro can resist no longer; he palms himself through his cloth, hips pushing forward even as his head bobs in Auctus’s lap. The taste and smell of the other man overwhelms him. Auctus comes wordlessly and Duro follows. The hand in his hair turns tender for a moment, smoothing over his crown and cheek. A kiss is pressed to his forehead.

“Go away, little pup.”

He is disappointed. He knows he should have expected this, but he looks up and his brows pull together and he wishes Auctus would meet his gaze.

“But—”

“Go.”

\--

The next morning, Agron breaks Auctus’s nose.

It’s a training accident, both insist. Agron hadn’t noticed that he had already disarmed Auctus, and merely meant to win the match. Duro knows his brother, though, and he knows the anger simmering in Agron’s voice and his eyes. He curses himself for letting his face betray him. He had hoped that Auctus would at least _look_ at him this morning, at least acknowledge that he took up space—and Agron had seen his disappointment.

Duro goes to Auctus and tries to apologize, but he is rebuffed. Agron turns away from them both, disgusted.

\--

“I only wish to protect you, as I have _always_ done! For fuck’s sake, Duro—”

“I do not need your protection!”

“Yes, you do. Our _only_ goal is to win glory and coin in the arena and go _home_ , away from these Roman shits, and you waste mind and effort on a washed-up, bitter mockery of a gladiator! Duro, you are better than his whore. Turn your mind towards task.”

“That is _your_ goal, Agron.”

“Not yours?”

“I…”

“You  would cast aside beloved brother for him? The shit has never even given you a kind word.”

“No. I wouldn’t. Apologies. You know I wouldn’t.”

“Duro… I will stop offering protection if you will stop _getting_ _injured_.”

“I will do my best.”

\--

They rebel.

\--

A guard backhands Pietros, hard enough to knock his head against a stone pillar, and the boy lets out an involuntary cry. Barca looks around and Ashur stabs him in the back.

“Barca!”

It is Pietros who screams, Auctus who finds himself without voice, and Pietros who is run through when he runs to Barca’s side. Blood spills from their lips, and they die in each other’s arms. Duro wants a moment to mourn fallen brothers, but there are more Romans to kill.

Auctus fights furiously, trying to reach Ashur, who disappears into the villa with his hands wet with blood.

\--

Pain.

Agron’s face swims in and out of his vision, and he can taste blood. Agron speaks, his voice high with anxiety, asking after his strength, begging him to hold on. Duro grins.

“I saved you this time, brother,” he laughs.

“In the future, leave heroics to me.”

He thinks there are tears in his brother’s eyes—he can hear them, even if he can’t see them. Agron’s hands gently pull the sword from wound, and Duro screams. Agron babbles apologies, applying pressure to his side, though Duro can feel the blood pushing out from between his fingers.

A body falls to its knees beside him, a yellow-orange blur in its hand. _Torch_ , he thinks vaguely.

“Hold him still,” Auctus orders. “Give me the sword.”

“Are you sure—”

“No, I’m not. The fucking sword.”

Duro’s eyes have fallen shut. He feels weaker than he ever has in his life, and then he hears Auctus’s voice, pitched low, in his ear.

“This will hurt,” he warns.

Pain.

\--

He wakes. He drinks and sleeps again. He feels rough hands on his face, his ribs, his limbs, and wakes only long enough to turn his head, to seek out the faces of those who carry him, before succumbing to unconsciousness. The light is dim, wherever they are, and the little he can see is draped in shadows.

Agron's face becomes familiar, anxious or angry lines drawn on his brow. Sometimes Duro wakes to find Auctus beside him--but only when Agron sleeps, he is told, because Agron does not forgive easily, and has the bite of a rabid dog.

Duro laughs when he hears that, and shooting pains reprimand him with every breath. Auctus's touch stills him, and he pours water and sleep down his throat.

Once, he wakes to the sensation of a soft mouth pressed against his own. He does not open his eyes.

"Stay."

A battle-worn hand wraps around his wrist. Auctus stays.

\--

"We cannot continue like this. Spartacus, we must leave Capua."

"Crixus seeks Naevia; I seek Glaber. Our location is central--"

"And I seek a place where my brother can heal! He cannot survive in this shithole without better food and provisions. None of us can."

A third voice speaks. "Agron's right."

"Fuck off."

Spartacus sighs.

"We attack the whorehouse tonight, in further search of Naevia. After that, we will leave--if you propose a better location."

Agron, satisfied, returns to Duro's pallet.

"I survived the wound," Duro tells him. "I can survive the fucking sewers."

“You must build strength again. I can’t feed you on rats.”

“He saved my life. You should be grateful to him.”

“I know.”

\--

They attack a villa. Duro watches from a safe distance, a long knife clutched in his hand even though he doesn’t have the strength to thrust it through anything but air. He can stand and walk, with Auctus supporting him, and that is enough. He sees regret on Auctus’s face and knows he would rather be at the villa. He asks why he stayed behind.

“One of us needed to stay with you, and Agron needed to kill someone. Better those poor fucks than me.”

Duro laughs. He kisses Auctus’s shoulder, and Auctus pulls away.

\--

“I love you.”

He can hear the anger, the impatience in his own voice, and he knows it makes him sound like a child, but he can’t help it. He steps forward and Auctus steps back, though his gaze is riveted on Duro’s face. His eyes. His lips.

“You are from the wilds of Germania; you have never heard of Achilles.”

“What?”

“Achilles was a Greek hero. He was given a choice: to die young, in glorious battle, and be remembered forever, or to live a long and anonymous life. Love is the same, and I--”

“Spare me your children’s tales,” Duro spits. He tries to leave, but Auctus grabs him by the arm, anger in his eyes.

“You doubt that every man must make that choice? Open your fucking eyes. Barca loved Pietros in such a way, a way he never loved me, and that love killed him. Crixus risks all on a suicide mission for Naevia, half-hoping that he dies before he finds her. Do you not see that? Do you not see it written on your own brother’s face, when he looks on the slave who attacked Spartacus? _That_ is what love is for the rest of us, Duro. Fear. _Terror_. There are some kinds of love that a man can survive, and some that rip him apart. You have a simple heart; choices like that are easy to you, but for others...”

“The choice _is_ simple,” Duro argues, shaking his head. “Happiness or unhappiness. Death plays no part in it.”

“I wish it was so.”

Duro walks away.

\--

That night, he flirts shamelessly with Chadara, a curly-haired slave with a wide smile and a cautious gaze. She reaches out to touch his knee, and at the same time Auctus sits beside him, throwing an arm over his shoulder. His lips find Duro’s hairline and Duro grins. He presses his face into the curve of Auctus’s neck, inhaling him and pressing a gentle kiss to the knot at his throat.

Then, as one, they turn away, back to the fire. He feels bad for Chadara, but it is impossible to do anything but smile when Auctus pulls him close, trading quick kisses.

Agron walks past and Duro expects reproving look, but none comes; Agron’s gaze is determined, fixed on something beyond Duro’s sight, and he carries two cups of wine. Auctus laughs lowly in his ear.


End file.
